


Whatever May Happen

by makeit_takeit



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Time, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 21:40:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12374649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeit_takeit/pseuds/makeit_takeit
Summary: The look on his face is the same dark, dangerous look Nate used to be afraid of, back in Iraq. It’s so full of need, so hot with want that even the Iceman can’t disguise it, not completely.Nate finds that look has a vastly different effect on him, now.





	Whatever May Happen

Nate digs his heels into the wet sand and braces for the next wave. It rolls and froths around his calves, cold and strong, spray dampening the bottoms of his rolled-up khaki’s. Tiny pebbles and cracked, broken shells skate across the tops of his feet as the surf rushes back out, and when he looks down he can’t see his toes anymore. About a meter to his left, he sees that Brad’s toes have disappeared, as well. He looks out at the Atlantic, the light green of the shallows lit up by the slant of the late afternoon sun, the deeper green a few meters out fading into deep, midnight blue, and Nate had forgotten how optimistic he always feels when he sees ocean stretching all the way out to the ends of the earth, all that open space in front of him, horizon in every direction.

He used to go to the beach all the time in Oceanside. He never even thinks about the ocean, in Boston.

“It’s always warmer than I expect.” Brad doesn’t look at Nate; he’s staring at the horizon, too. “Doesn’t feel like wading into piss, the way it does in Florida, but still warmer than home. Waves are bigger than I remembered, too. It’s no Trestles, but I guess it’s better than I gave it credit for, eh Sir?”

Now he looks over, that half-grin quirked to the side just like Nate remembers, and it’s at least 46 kinds of unfair and more than a little unbelievable that after all the time Nate has spent trying to forget Brad Colbert and his fucking looks, _this_ is happening.

A quick overnighter down from Boston to Camp Lejeune, a quick meeting with one of the million different committees Nate sits on these days, in and out and back home in 24 hours, that’s all Nate was prepared for. What he definitely was _not_ prepared for was Brad Colbert materializing next to him as he criss-crossed the green lawn in front of the Administrative headquarters on base, striking up a conversation like they just saw each other yesterday, asking him if he has plans for the night and calling him fucking _Sir_. It hit Nate like a sucker punch, made his brain feel woozy with adrenaline like he was right back there in the shit, as soon as he heard that voice.

He’d know that fucking voice, the cadence of that sardonic delivery anytime and anyplace, and no, Nate was definitely not prepared for that.

Now Nate can feel Brad beside him, even from a few feet away, and he closes his eyes and thinks this is just how it always was, Brad always too close for comfort, but never close enough to count. But the way Brad looked at him this afternoon, the way he asked if Nate wanted to drive to the beach with him, Nate knows this is different.  The things that used to fill up that space between them – the officer-enlisted divide and the chain of command and the professionalism they both took fucking seriously, and the motherfucking _war_ – those things are all gone, and now there’s nothing in the space between them but the years since they last saw each other, and they’ve got the whole night and a mostly-deserted beach and a brand new bottle of scotch to bridge those.

Nate knows it’s only a matter of time now.

“I think I’m going in,” Brad steps back, out of the water, and grins.

Nate doesn’t move, just watches as Brad rips his t-shirt over his head, drops it on top of his boots and socks in the sand. Nate’s tongue darts out to lick the salt from his lips, and when Brad’s hands reach for the fly of his trousers, Nate feels his heart thud suddenly against his ribs and a thick wave of something he hasn’t felt in years – a very specific brand of lust for a very specific brand of man - rises up in his chest.

Brad strides past him in his skivvies, still flashing that grin, and Nate catches a quick glimpse of that god-awful tattoo and the really-shouldn’t-be-alluring way it ripples with the muscles of Brad’s back, before Brad dives under the incoming waves. When he finally surfaces, he’s so far away Nate can barely hear him when he yells,

“Don’t be a pussy, Sir! The water’s fine!”

Nate manages to keep his hands from shaking long enough to divest himself of his clothing and leave it next to Brad’s in the sand, then wades out into the surf. Out where Brad is, it’s deep and the undertow is strong, and when the waves lift him up Nate has to tread water with one hand and hold onto his boxer briefs with the other.

They sink and bob with the swells, Brad on his back with the last of the sun refracting off the water on his chest and his skivvies riding obscenely low across his hips, waves rocking him back and forth. Nate stays upright and watches, which he has a sneaking suspicion is probably the point of all this, as the water around them gets darker and darker.

The sun has completely disappeared, the sand barely visible anymore, when Brad finally rolls onto his belly and swims toward Nate. He might as well be Jaws, the way Nate’s heart is pounding.

The first thing Nate feels is Brad’s hands skimming over his stomach, gripping his waist on either side and tugging him close. Brad’s skin slips easily against Nate’s, their knees knocking as they’re lifted by a swell, and by the time they’re deposited back on solid ground Brad’s fingers are fitted along the dip of Nate’s lower back, chests pressed together, and Nate can barely breathe.

“What do you say we take this somewhere more suitable, Sir?”

Brad’s breath is hot on Nate’s skin, and Nate’s hoping his voice isn’t as shaky as he feels when he says,

“You know Brad, you really don’t need to continue to call me Sir. I mean, considering.”

He manages to raise an eyebrow, but he knows the effect isn’t what it once was. There was a time when Nate is pretty sure he could pull off cool and in control with Brad, but that was years ago and he’s out of practice. The best he can hope for now is that he has the strength to make eye contact and keep his voice from cracking completely.

Brad grins, predatory, all Iceman.

“Oh, but I do. To do otherwise would seriously fuck with all my favorite fantasies. We don’t want that, now do we Sir?”

Nate doesn’t answer, just thinks momentarily that Brad Colbert has _fantasies_ about him, and he really can’t take anymore. He snakes his arm behind Brad’s back, hand splaying open against the cold wet skin of Brad’s shoulder, and he presses their mouths together.

Brad goes stiff, obviously startled, obviously thinking he was going to run this like he runs everything else – his way. But his fingers clutch at Nate’s skin in a way that makes him smile against Brad’s lips, licking along them, tasting salt and thinking he should press the advantage while he has it, because he has every reason to believe it will be short lived. His hands slide across slippery skin, fingers tracing by memory over the ink he can’t see, then down under the waist of Brad’s skivvies, and Brad grunts against his mouth, body turning soft and pliant in Nate’s hands for the briefest of moments before he pulls away impatiently.

“I think we’ve had enough foreplay to last several lifetimes. Come on.”

He dives under with the wave that’s washing past, disappearing into the dark. Nate finds a foothold in the shifting sand and shoves off, swims for shore.

 

**\+ + +**

 

They stand shivering on the sand, waiting to dry. It’s North Carolina in July, still easily 85 degrees even after sundown, but the heat is cut by the strong breeze, cool off the water and bringing the goosebumps up on Nate’s skin. Brad doesn’t speak, just runs his t-shirt over his face, his torso, up and down his legs, while Nate doesn’t bother to conceal the fact that he’s watching, figuring the pretense is pointless at this juncture.

The silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable, as they walk back to the car half dressed. They sit on the still-sun-hot hood of Brad’s rental and pass the scotch back and forth between them more than a few times before Brad finally explains what he’s doing in North Carolina. Nate would never have asked.

“Informational debriefing. Sharing the wealth of knowledge I picked up from the Brits.”

Nate grins at the mocking tone of his voice, so familiar; grins at Brad’s assumption that Nate would know he’s been in Britain. Of course, Nate does. Just as Nate is sure Brad knows exactly who recommended him for that exchange program to begin with.

“Can’t imagine anything the Brits could have shown you that you didn’t already know, Brad.”

Brad’s eyebrow goes up slightly, along with the corner of his mouth, and Nate feels heat in his face that comes more by habit than by necessity. They’re so far past playing innocent, at this point.

“I think you give me too much credit, Sir.”

Brad’s looking out at the waves, grimacing against the burn of the scotch as he raises the bottle, and when Nate takes it back the brush of Brad’s fingers on his is purposeful, laced with electricity.

“Not sure that’s possible, Staff Sergeant.”

Nate doesn’t have to put any emphasis on the part of Brad’s rank that’s changed since last they met, doesn’t need to explain how he knew, and Brad doesn’t ask, either, just ticks the side of his mouth up again, that Brad Colbert expression that’s burned in Nate’s brain, and jerks his head almost imperceptibly – a question. Nate’s nod is just as understated, then they’re moving in tandem off the hood and into the car.

 

**\+ + +**

 

They don’t need to talk about it. Nate knows Brad will be staying on base; Brad knows Nate would have a hotel room. Nate talks him through the directions without prompting, watching Brad’s fingers tight and sure on the steering wheel, blood too hot, skin too tight, clammy clothes suddenly feeling too restrictive, claustrophobic. He calculates and recalculates the time he thinks it will take, given Brad’s rate of speed and their whereabouts, to arrive at the hotel. He’s within 2 minutes of their actual arrival time, and he smiles to himself.

In the elevator, Brad holds the scotch with one hand and Nate’s belt loop with the other, staring straight ahead without speaking, and Nate has had just enough scotch that he’s pretty sure he’s not shaking, at least not outwardly.

Brad keeps his finger hooked in the beltloop all the way down the hall.

Inside the room, Nate tosses the key onto the nightstand, hears the thunk of the scotch bottle on the dresser and turns around. Brad is leaned back against the wall, hands behind his back, head tipped back to expose the length of his throat. Nate just stares.

“Drink?” Nate asks, hoping like hell he knows the answer.

“Maybe later.”

That sideways smirk is back as Brad’s hands move to shuck his t-shirt. Nate has to grin back.

“Enough foreplay to last several lifetimes?”

He’s been thinking about it since Brad said it.

“Months’ worth of sexual tension gone unresolved for years? Yes, Sir, I’d say that gratification has been delayed to a fucking ridiculous degree, and I’d rather we just got on with finding out what we’ve been missing.”

“Roger that.”

Nate takes a slow step forward, pressing his mouth to the throat that’s still on offer. Brad’s groan is low and dark, almost a growl, then his hands slide down and under the hem of Nate’s undershirt, back up to find hot bare skin. He steps closer, away from the wall, fingers still skating along Nate’s torso, tracing muscle and bone, abs and ribs as he lowers his mouth to Nate’s neck in turn, drags dry lips in a line under his jaw.

They breathe heavily against each others skin for only a few seconds before Brad is stepping back, reaching for his fly, and who is Nate to argue? He follows suit, dropping his unbuttoned shirt on the ground and his undershirt on top of it. They lose shoes and pants, until they’re standing there in their saltwater-stiff underwear, their harsh breaths the only sound in the quiet of the room.

Brad’s bright eyes go cloudy, dark, lids dropping suddenly to half-mast.

“Jesus, look at you.” Brad’s voice is thick, almost choked, and so un-Brad-like that Nate wouldn’t believe it if he didn’t see Brad’s lips moving, hear the sounds coming straight from his mouth, and the look on his face is the same dark, dangerous look Nate used to be afraid of, back in Iraq. It’s so full of need, so hot with want that even the Iceman can’t disguise it, not completely.

Nate finds that look has a vastly different effect on him, now.

A streak of something hot and primal runs up from the base of his spine, and Nate’s hand is sliding around the back of Brad’s neck, pulling him in. Lips and tongues and bodies crush together, hands grappling and arms locking around each other, and Nate’s not even sure how he winds up naked on his back with Brad sitting astride him, looking down at Nate in that same way, barely restrained aggression.

“Brad.”

Brad’s rolling his hips now, his weight settled painfully, perfectly over Nate’s erection.

“Brad.”

Brad shifts and rocks and strokes himself, watching Nate’s face as he squirms, desperate and helpless, and not just in the physical sense.

“ _Brad_.”

Like it’s the only fucking word he knows, or can remember, and Nate shakes his head like he’s trying to shake it out of his brain. His hand reaches up to take over what Brad has started, but he wants full contact, body to body and skin on skin so as soon as Brad lets go Nate’s hand stills and he tries one more time.

“Brad.”

Brad’s Adam’s apple moves up and down, his eyes slowly close, then flutter open and focus on Nate.

Brad just nods, follows Nate’s unspoken orders by force of habit, somehow, even these years later, shifts himself to lying down, spreads himself out directly on top of Nate, right where Nate wants him. And this is that same fucking understanding that Nate thought, with time and space and distance, that he must have been imagining. He wonders idly if there’s ever been another human being who’s been more – better? - attuned to Nate’s mood, to guessing what Nate wants before Nate says it, before he even knows it, than Brad.

Brad’s hands reach down to grip his ass, and Nate just holds on for dear life as they clutch and slide and thrust and push and pull and finally come, mouths both opened against the others’ necks as they suck and kiss and breathe with hot sighs and low, strangled groans.

“Christ,” Brad grunts, and his mouth finds Nate’s just for the briefest of moments, before he’s rolling off, away from Nate to lie shoulder to shoulder on the bed.

“Can’t fucking believe this,” Brad shakes his head, that smirk lifting up the corner of his mouth when he looks over. “Thought this particular ship sailed years ago.”

“You mean this isn’t what you were expecting, when you woke up this morning?”

Brad snorts.  
  
“Not quite.”

“Whatever may happen to thee, it was prepared for thee from all eternity; and the implication of causes was from eternity spinning the thread of thy being...”

Nate recites it by rote, because it’s the first thing that comes to his mind. His hand slides over so his pinky can brush against Brad’s, wrap around it.

When he looks over, Brad’s eyes are narrowed, one eyebrow raised, skeptical and mocking.

“Marcus Aurelius,” Nate shrugs, and Brad huffs _of course it is_ , shakes his head, fondly indulgent.

“Y’know,” Brad starts, then he stops.

“What?” Nate asks finally, when the silence stretches on long enough.

“It’s nothing, really, just. I was thinking of you, earlier. Before I ran into you. I don’t know what it was, someone on the television talking about something, and I just. Thought of you.”

Nate raises up on an elbow and looks down at Brad. That look is still there, the one Nate used to fear. It’s like terror and anticipation and excitement and dread. It’s like longing, like. Hope.

And Nate might have thought of Brad this morning, or he might not have. He can’t remember, but the point is it wouldn’t have been notable, if he had. Wouldn’t have been notable, because Brad crosses his mind so often it’s not even worth remarking on, not worth keeping track.

“Is that. Out of the ordinary? You thinking of me, I mean?”

Brad’s eyes flash, and Nate can practically read the threat assessment protocols running through his mind in the drag of the silence before he answers. He’s weighing the pros and cons, the costs of telling the truth.

“No, Sir, not out of the ordinary. To the contrary; I would say it’s so ordinary as to be habitual, actually.”

Nate feels that hot spike of something again, tearing through his guts and straight into his heart, so strong he thinks for a second he might actually shake with it. 

His hand slides across Brad’s belly, through the sticky mess there, the evidence of what the two of them have done, will do again. It’s not just a mirage, not a figment of his imagination, not just another day, just another night where he’s conjured up some half-waking dream of Brad back in his life, Brad in his bed.

Brad stares raptly at Nate’s fingers, mouth open and pink, then his eyes cut back to Nate’s face.

“Don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, Sir,” he sets his jaw, bracing for impact.

“As a matter of fact, Sergeant, I know quite a bit about it.”

Nate grins, and watches Brad’s face relax, soften into something new.

Then Brad grins back, but there’s no smirk this time, no tease in it. For once it’s the real thing, unadulterated, nothing but pure joy.


End file.
